


The Cursed Fourteenth Century

by LawrVert



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley trapped between serpent and human corporation, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21705850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LawrVert/pseuds/LawrVert
Summary: When Crowley becomes trapped between his human and serpent forms, he is forced to seek sanctuary in an unlikely place.  Now, no longer able to blend in with humans, Crowley faces being returned to Hell permanently with no chance of returning to Earth or Aziraphale unless his condition can be reversed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	The Cursed Fourteenth Century

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AraniaArt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/gifts).



It was bitter cold night and Crowley drew his cloak tighter around him as the wind whipped at his hair and seemed to cut like a knife straight through to his bones. The thin cloak he drew around his skinny frame did little to shield him from the chill. Crowley hated the bloody cold, but a night sleeping on the ground was still better than blistering his feet seeking shelter in the only building in close proximity, a church. When he heard voices nearby, he could already sense that his evening was about to get worse. 

There were three male voices, coarse and emboldened by spirits. He heard their footsteps getting closer and sighed, still facing away from them. The first one spoke, voice throaty like the manic croaking of an overgrown frog. 

"Look at that, my gentles. I bet this one's got a nice purse on him." 

The second spoke with a tinny voice suggesting he was barely out of his teens. "That's a fine cloak." 

"Too fine for the likes of him," growled the third. 

Finally, Crowley groaned in utter exasperation and turned over. "Right then. Let's get this over with. I assume you three wouldn't be satisfied with sharing my fire. There's no need for all this." He stayed right where he was and propped his head up on his hand. 

The men looked at each other in utter disbelief before they broke into raucous laughter and the largest one replied, "Only way we'll be satisfied is if we leave with your purse and your cloak and anything else you might be hiding." 

The men began to advance, and Crowley warned them, not in the least intimidated despite seeming outnumbered. "Last chance. You won't like what happens in a moment." 

"We shall take our chances, the smaller one said, barring his rat-like incisors." They reached out for him only to find themselves holding an empty cloak as a giant black snake with a red underbelly rose up and hissed at them, fangs gleaming in the moonlight as he struck at them. 

"Vile spirit of the forest!" The ringleader shouted as he clung to the other two. Crying and screaming, the men ran as fast as they could down the road. 

The snake made a series of broken hissing sounds that were oddly similar to laughter as he watched their hastily retreating silhouettes. Crowley had thoroughly enjoyed their little brawl, but now, it was time to get back into his human form so he could find an inn and get some sleep. Strictly speaking, Crowley was on official business on a mission to perform temptations and promote discord, but he'd actually been able to avoid any actual responsibility as the humans were constantly finding trouble on their own. Although he didn't actually need to eat or drink, he had a craving for a glass or seven of mead and a good night's sleep at an inn. 

Concentrating a moment, he felt his teeth shifting and fangs receding, his tongue shortening and his body sprouting limbs. Something felt off, but the demon dismissed the feeling. He was out of practice. Yes, that was it. There hadn't been a need to shapeshift in a long time. Along the way, he passed the old crone  
in front of the inn, who started screaming and pointing a gnarled finger at him. "I know what though art. Black-hearted demon from the pits of hell." Sighing, Crowley turned long enough to scowl and growl an answer, "And though art deep in ale. He fished for a coin in his purse to placate her long enough to get into the inn. The old crone never got her coin as the moment he raised his hand, he was frozen by the window of the inn, eyes widening in shock.

An incomplete transformation had left him with black and red scales along his arm, and he dreaded seeing how much of his body was affected. Until Crowley had a chance to inspect the damage, he couldn't risk venturing outside. Drawing up the hood of his cloak, he found a sheltered cave to pass the night, though he felt far too anxious to sleep. 

Crouching on the riverbank at dawn's first light, Crowley bent down to drink, mud soaking through the knees of his trousers. Reflected in the surface of the water was a nightmare visage with Slit-like nostrils, skin interspersed with scales, and ears diminished to tiny mounds of flesh. Only his golden eyes and long red hair remained the same. Shrinking back, he drew the hood of his cloak up, nearly falling into the water when the surface rippled and changed, showing Hastur and Ligur. 

"Crowley...your report is late. Why didn't you check in?" Hastur growled the words, the toad on his head moving slightly and blinking. 

"Check in. Right." Crowley kept his face turned away from the river. "Everything's been going so well right now and I've been rather busy with all the...ngk… temptations and peasant revolts."

"Ligur here won 500 souls this month. A department record. And I invented a new more efficient system of torture," Hastur said, his toad puffing out. 

"Listen. That is just thrilling news, but I really need to get back to work….so…" Crowley moved to stir up ripples and cut off the communication just a moment too late. 

Ligur leaned forward, shock turning to something like wicked joy. "What's wrong with your face?" 

"Just had a bit of trouble shapeshifting. It's temporary." Crowley drew himself up, tried to look relaxed and in control. 

"I don't know. It looks like an improvement to me. Never cared for what up there does to us. I miss the damp and the boils and the bad humors," Ligur growled. 

"You'd better get your corporation back in order or you'll be called back to head office. You're no good for field work if you can't blend in." Hastur leaned forward, coal-black eyes burning with menace. 

"I'll get it under control. I just need a little time. Until then, I can keep a low profile," Crowley replied. 

"See that you do." The water rippled and the demons disappeared, leaving Crowley alone and on the verge of panicking.

If he couldn't find a way to fix his corporation, it would mean no more earth, no more feeling the warmth of the sun on his back, no more mead in warm and cheery taverns. It would be back to cold and eternal darkness, perhaps even back to being tortured, a common fate of demons that failed to reach their quota of evil deeds and damned souls. Worse than that was the thought of losing Aziraphale, the only friend he had ever had. 

Aziraphale! Crowley was very late for their meeting at the tavern on the edge of the forest. His hand made an involuntary motion, fingers reaching towards the spot where the angel waited in front of the tavern door, bathed in the glow of the fire warming the hearth inside. He adjusted a rich fawn cloak with golden embroidery at the hem, placed a hand over his belly which spilled over at the spot where the ivory tunic was belted. Fidgeting, the angel became anxious as he searched the street for Crowley. For a moment, he disappeared into the tavern, undoubtedly making enquiries as to whether anyone had seen a man meeting Crowley's description then returned, shoulders slumped. "Crowley? Where in the hell...the heaven..are you?" Aziraphale called, and for a moment, his gaze almost reached the spot where Crowley stood, coarse bark cutting uncomfortably into the tender spots on his back. 

Crowley yearned to call out to the angel. Perhaps he could hide his face in the shadows, just give him a message. Something. What must Aziraphale think? He had never before missed a meeting. And what if he couldn't transform back, how could he face the angel as this monster? Perhaps it was better to spare the angel the pain and himself the shame. What good was it to see his old friend if he would only see repulsion in Aziraphale's eyes. 

He slunk further into the darkness, nails curling into the trunk of the tree painfully, forcing himself to stay silent. Perhaps in time, the angel would forget about Crowley and their arrangement and hell would reclaim him, but for now, he would do all he could to stay on the earth. The flames of hell had never burned away Crowley's capacity for hope. 

The angel waited for three hours, then finally, he turned to leave, a faint wetness glistening on his cheeks. Crowley couldn't tear his gaze away though every moment was like a knife prodding at an open wound. He wanted to drink him in in case this was the last glimpse he would ever have. 

Hours later, Crowley reached the open field where several stark stone buildings stood around a central chapel. "Will not be visiting that," Crowley muttered under his breath. As leper colonies were operated by the church, they all tended to have some bit of sacred ground. Otherwise, he imagined it would be the perfect place to hide.  
Striking mud with his foot, he encountered the deep trench designed to separate the colony of Saint Mary the Virgin from the surrounding world. Summoning a few stones from the ground, he formed a crude staircase to cross over then returned them to the earth with a flick of his wrist. There was only one way to get in or out of the colony to prevent the spread of infection, and after a bit of searching, Crowley found it on the other side. 

Black Bandages covered most of his face with only tiny slits that allowed him to see. His arms were swaddled with thick material as well, exposing only his fingers. His disguise should allow him to blend in with the lepers well enough, and nothing that awaited him here could be worse than what hell had in store. He could hide there for a time, disappear until a remedy could be found or hell's agents eventually found him. 

A small balding man with kind eyes greeted him, a monk or clergyman by the look of him. "Welcome, brother. We haven't much to give, but here you will find rest, a hot meal, and a clean bed." 

Crowley hovered at the entrance, wavering for a moment. "I don't need much." 

"What is your name, my son?" The little man extended a hand, fingers gnarled from arthritis. 

"Crowley," the demon replied, cautiously extending his hand. 

The priest shook it carefully. "I'm Father Timothy. We'll get you settled before dinner. I'm afraid the doctor has already made his rounds this week, but we can get you something to help you sleep." 

Then his timing had been particularly good. He doubted the doctor would know what to make of him. "That's not necessary. Thank you for your kindness." 

Crowley was led past livestock pens and gardens where men and women worked, faces or limbs concealed behind thick bandages. They did not seem terribly miserable despite their wretched appearances, and even a few children peered from doorways of small houses. Father Timothy led him to a small stone building with a straw pallet and a basin of clean water and a set of fresh clothing laid out. "Here we are. If you need ligaments for pain or anything else, just let me know. You can find me in the chapel when I'm not making my rounds." 

Crowley managed a quick expression of thanks despite wishing desperately for a moment's privacy to start working on reversing his plight. Once the priest was gone, he stripped off the bandages, using the water provided to look at himself. For good reason, no mirrors were provided. Crowley imagined it would be a terrible cruelty to the residents. 

Peering into the mirrored surface, he sighed and closed his eyes. His appearance was no worse, but certainly no better. For two hours, he concentrated, sweat beading up on his brow, without noticing any improvement. His other powers were mercifully still intact, but each time he attempted to shapeshift, it was like running into a stone wall. 

Finally, he put on the clean robes after a bit of magic to darken them to black and rebandaged his face. Might as well explore the place he might be spending the rest of his free years in. 

He noticed what appeared to be a pile of rags sitting just outside of the garden. Just as he thought to cut a path around them, he noticed them shaking and a faint keening sound. 

"Ah, hello there," Crowly greeted the lump of rags rather awkwardly. A small face partially bandaged and framed by a veil of dark hair looked up to meet his eyes. 

"Hello," the little girl replied with a loud sniffle. 

Crowley managed a smile, although only a little of his face was visible. "You must be a….why….a princess." Bowing low, he knelt beside her on the ground. 

"No, sir. I'm not a princess. She wiped her nose with the back of her wrist. 

"Surely you must be one. The most beautiful princess in all the land. Tell me, what is your name, princess?" The demon's faint smile turned into a huge grin. 

"Elspeth," she giggled. 

"That's a fine name for a princess. But you need a proper crown. Shall I make you one?" 

"Oh, yes please, Mister…" 

"Crowley," he supplied and, using a bit of magic, wove together a crown of flowers and reeds.

"For you, my lady," he presented it with a flourish, placing it delicately on top of her head. 

"Thank you, Crowley." The little girl smiled so brightly, it warmed his heart. 

"Don't mention it. It is not every day I meet a princess." Crowley picked Elspeth up and carried her on his shoulders. The child giggled and waved to the people they passed. When they reached her house, Crowley set her down and walked back to the area around the chapel, hoping to speak with Father Timothy. Crowley could accept his own affliction, even if he didn't fully understand it. He was Fallen, afterall. That girl was another matter, wholly innocent, deserving of a long, happy life. 

A few weeks past of making little wooden toys for Elspeth and the other children, joining in their games and on occasion tossing them high into the air and catching them. After a while, Crowley found working in the garden to be a good way to keep himself from going mad with boredom. 

Since Crowley couldn't bear actually going inside the chapel, he crouched in the garden next to it alongside Father Timothy planting tulip bulbs, hands pleasantly wet and grimy. Crowley had always liked the feel of damp earth as well as the scent. "Father...may I ask you something?" 

The man sat back on his knees and smiled warmly, rubbing his back with a slight groan. "Anything, my son." 

"The little girl named Elspeth. She has the disease too. Doesn't she?" 

"She is in the early stages, but she was infected just as her parents were." The priest placed another bulb into the earth and began moving soil to cover it. 

"So….what will happen to her? Will she die?"  
Crowley's voice broke. He had quite a fondness for the quick-witted child, and had even come to enjoy their games and pretend dinners where she fed him Satan-knows-what. 

The priest sighed wearily. "She will most likely spend her life here. She cannot return to society. She may die." He placed a hand on Crowley's shoulder. "But it is also possible a cure will be found in her lifetime." 

"Forgive me, Father, but what kind of God allows this to happen to a child?" Crowley's hands clenched in the dirt. 

"It is not for us to question why these things happen. What we can do for her is to keep her comfortable and give her a life filled with kindness and peace." Father Timothy winced and removed one of his leather gloves, old and patched in many places. Crowley watched as he flexed and extended the fingers of his hand, and his gaze did not miss the oozing sore though, the priest quickly replaced the glove. 

A look passed between them, and Crowley did not mention what he had seen. "Father? Perhaps you will say a prayer for Elspeth?" 

"Of course, Crowley." He nodded and added quietly, "Shall I also say one for you?" 

"That's very kind, but I'm afraid I'm…" Crowley trailed off, searching for an explanation. He couldn't exactly say "I'm afraid demons are beyond prayer" to a priest. "I'll...ah... see you tomorrow. " 

Back in the bare-walled stone room he called home, Crowley paced back and forth, eyes directed downwards then towards the heavens. He had spent the better part of the hour raving and pleading. "If you love them, how can you do that to a little girl? Why her? I know I failed you, but not her." 

Crowley slumped onto the floor. "Let me stay like this forever. Just heal her. I know you can." 

Receiving no sign, no response at all, Crowley made a decision. If neither Upstairs nor Downstairs were going to do something about it, he would take things into his own hands. Aziraphale had always been a bit better at healing, but it was a skill every angel and demon possessed in the event they needed to heal their rather delicate corporations. Strictly speaking, neither side was encouraged to heal humans unless it was part of their direct mission objective, but great mangled pustulent bollocks to that. If his days were numbered, he might as well go out in a blaze. Besides, he could argue that by healing the girl, he was, in fact, defying the Ineffable plan. Technically, his side couldn't argue with that. 

Crowley waited until nightfall then slipped into Elspeth's house and knelt by her bed passing a hand over her face and whispering softly, watching as the spots disappeared, revealing smooth, olive skin. Although the effort temporarily drained his energy, Crowley went into her parents' room and healed them as well. 

Over the next few weeks, Elspeth and her family made such a miraculous recovery that they were able to leave the colony, and the day Crowley waved goodbye at the gate until the figures disappeared into the distance was bittersweet. That night, the cost of those miracles was revealed by moonlight as he found several more large patches of scales when he bathed.

There were quite a few more miraculous recoveries that year, and the garden was more beautiful than ever. Father Timothy was delighted to find even his roses were in full bloom by spring. 

Noone had come for Crowley, but he had made reports linking himself to several peasant revolts, so he wagered Hell must have been satisfied enough for the moment to ignore him. Crowley had settled into a daily routine, trying to keep a low profile and himself busy enough to avoid going mad working in the garden, tending to the livestock, and assisting with the care of the sick. Over time, he required more bandages as he moved slowly closer to his serpent form. He sighed, thinking to himself that at least the garden would be lovely for basking in spring and summer. 

Another month passed and he helped Father Timothy to mix tinctures of herbs in the kitchen. The poor priest was gesturing quite animatedly and sliced the tip of his finger deeply. Crowley had to grab the knife to prevent further harm from coming to him. "You're bleeding. Here...you need to clean it and wrap it properly. What will we do if something happens to you?" 

"I hardly noticed. I...I'm losing the feeling in my hands. The disease is progressing." He spoke the words as matter-of-factly as if he were reciting a catechism. 

"Is there nothing to be done?" Crowley wished there were something, anything he could do, but healing a priest would get him noticed. It was grounds for execution for a demon he wagered. 

"There are remedies used in other places, but they will only slow the progress," he said sadly. 

"That's not very fair is it? Here you are out here doing good and the Almighty curses you with the very affliction you've been helping to fight?" Crowley growled as he shoved a seed into the dirt and threw a handful of dirt over it. 

"I am meant to suffer beside these people so I can truly understand them and show them compassion and love." Father Timothy placed a hand on Crowley's arm. 

Crowley recoiled from the touch as if it had burned him, retreated to his home and slumped onto his cot, unable to sleep. The next morning, a visitor arrived, a cleric sent to inspect the colony. Crowley waited at the door as he passed by, then quickly went inside at the sound of the familiar voice asking about him. 

Aziraphale was there amongst the wretched and dying. For the angel, surely walking into the colony was almost as bad as walking into hell itself. His angel couldn't see him like this. Perhaps he could run or hide here until everyone was asleep. While he was paralyzed by panic, the angel had found his home and was crossing the threshold. 

"Crowley, I know you're here. I can sense you. No need to hide, my dear boy." There was a tenderness in Aziraphale's voice, yet Crowley was still terrified, thinking of jumping out the window or hiding under the bed. 

"I traveled very far. You don't know how hard it was to find you. Please, come out now." Aziraphale was almost to the bedroom now, and Crowley was shaking. Finally, faced with no other choice, he stepped into the light. 

Aziraphale smiled softly then his eyes traveled up and down his lean frame. "Oh, good lord. The bandages are a bit dramatic, don't you think? Especially since demon physiology won't allow you to actually contract leprosy. " 

"It's not leprosy, angel. It's worse, " Crowley studied his feet, cringing back when Aziraphale moved closer. 

"Let me see. Perhaps I can help. " Aziraphale reached for one of the bandages, and Crowley pushed his hand away.

"Don't. Please. I'd rather you remembered me the way I was," Crowley said bitterly. 

"Crowley, whatever happened to you, we can fix it together. I don't care what you look like." Aziraphale was very close, the light coming through a gap in the roof illuminating his hair. 

"Alright. You asked for this, angel." Crowley hastily ripped wrappings from his face and arms. 

Once the wrappings were off, Aziraphale studied him, no trace of repulsion in his eyes. "Is this what you were so upset about?" 

"I can't stay on Earth looking like this." Crowley shook his head, waving a hand irritably in front of his body. "And how do you not find this repulsive?" 

"This?" Aziraphale chuckled. "This is nothing. I'd guess you were placed under an easily reversible curse. Why did you not come to me sooner?" Aziraphale's soft, manicured hands were caressing his face ever-so-gently. 

Crowley felt close to discorporating from the touches, so unexpected and kind. "Cursed...but how?" He thought for a moment to the mysterious bandits that appeared just before Hastur and Ligur's communication. Growling, he slammed his fist on the table. "Hastur!" 

"Angelic magic will put this right. Don't worry. Sit down for me. This could take some time." Aziraphale guided him over to the bed, sat him down and then, frowning at the straw mattress, conjured a fluffy pillow for himself. 

It was the most sublime torture Crowley could have ever imagined. Aziraphale's hands felt so warm, they seemed to glow with the light of heaven itself as they traced his features--his fine nose, chiseled jaw, and high cheekbones. He could feel the scales peeling off, the skin beneath itching slightly though Aziraphale kept him from scratching. Next, the angel carefully unwrapped his hands and arms, held Crowley's palm against his own, infusing him with healing angelic light. It was almost too much to bear, these profoundly intimate and gentle touches. 

"There we are. I just need a moment's rest and then I can start on any other areas." 

Aziraphale reclined on Crowley's bed and the demon went ghastly pale, rather scandalized at the prospect of Aziraphale seeing more of him. "Other areas. I..ah….do you really...ngk… think that's necessary." 

"Only if you want to be fully healed. Just try to relax. May I remove this robe?" 

"I...ah...angel...is that...really necessary. I mean. Isn't there another way?" Crowley's skin was crimson, and for a moment, his burning cheeks made him miss having scales. 

"I'm afraid not. But it won't take me very long." Finally, Crowley allowed Aziraphale to help him out of his robes and stood all awkward limbs in his short black braies (He drew the line at removing his undergarments. He had to preserve some of his dignity after all.) 

"You know, Crowley you're really quite lovely." Aziraphale smiled as his broad palms massaged his shoulder blades and skimmed the planes of his chest. He stifled a gasp as skilled fingertips drew circles on his flat stomach, then moved to trace his spine. Crowley shivered at the touch, and closed his eyes, the attention entirely overwhelming. He wanted this touch, needed it on an almost primal level. 

A sudden guilt washed over him. This was a strictly professional interaction, healing only. "Don't say that. There's nothing lovely about me. I'm a demon." 

"Do try and hold still. Oh, dear. You must be freezing. Almost done. Just one more moment….done." Aziraphale smiled softly and snapped his fingers, retrieving a blanket from thin air. He wrapped Crowley in it. 

"Thank you," a rather flustered and stunned Crowley breathed. 

"No need to thank me. Although if you wish, I am in the mood for some lunch." 

"Anywhere you like, angel " Crowley quickly dressed, asking, "How did you find me?" 

"I'd been looking for you for a long time. Since you didn't show up to our last meeting. I had a feeling something was wrong. When I heard about the mysterious things happening here, somehow I knew it was where I'd find you." 

After that day, their bond grew stronger. They seemed to know when the other was in danger. Perhaps it was a chill in the middle of summer, a twisting of the stomach, a prickling in the back of their minds. Crowley developed a suspicion after a while that Aziraphale sometimes got himself into trouble deliberately so he would have the pleasure of being rescued by Crowley. Once Hastur and Ligur found out Crowley was back to normal, he imagined, he'd be needing Aziraphale's assistance again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to Eriathalia for beta-reading and offering advice! While I researched the history of leprosy and leper colonies during the period, you will probably find historical inaccuracies. The name of the Leper colony is based on an actual leper colony outside of London that was still present in the fourteenth century, but other names and details are not real. 
> 
> Thank you for this prompt, AraniaArt! I hope you like this fic!


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